


What your life might sound like

by randomalia (spilinski)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Coda, M/M, no regrets tbh, so much fluff i don't know what I'm doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilinski/pseuds/randomalia
Summary: ‘You know, there’s nothing wrong with getting a little turned ‘round when something like this happens,’ John says quietly. He’s always quiet. Harold has never found a more restful sound than John’s voice.‘Yes,’ Harold says, ‘well, I’m fine, really.’





	

**Author's Note:**

> Episode coda to 2x03. I never write fluff but apparently now I do??? Because I want these idiots to be happy. Title from Weekends by Amy Shark <3

John has a beer. Harold orders a Dewar’s scotch and presses his fingers against the cool glass.

‘You know, there’s nothing wrong with getting a little turned ‘round when something like this happens,’ John says quietly. He’s always quiet. Harold has never found a more restful sound than John’s voice.

‘Yes,’ Harold says, ‘well, I’m fine really.’

‘Sure you are,’ John says. ‘But if you weren’t – if you were having trouble being around other people, or not sleeping…’

Harold drops his gaze from John’s steady face to watch the light play on his untouched drink.

‘I’m here with you, aren’t I?’ he says.

He really doesn’t know why he’s fighting this. It’s nonsensical. If it were John who had been kidnapped and tortured – well, he finds that doesn’t bear thinking about very often, though he has contingency plans for just such an event. But if it were John – what would Harold do, afterwards?

‘You’re used to me,’ John points out, and if he were the type of man to shrug, he would be shrugging. He doesn’t like to assume that he has Harold’s regard, Harold knows that. Always mentally shrugging away the possibility that Harold might care for him.

‘Not quite,’ Harold replies. He looks up. ‘But I’m safe with you.’

There’s something burning in John’s gaze that Harold doesn’t know how to name.

‘You are,’ John says. His tone is final.

Next to the table, the dog whines softly, and John drops an easy hand to rub at its head. They’re sitting outside, in a courtyard out the back of a bar, some place Harold hadn’t known. The girl at the bar had nodded at John like she knew him, and completely ignored the enormous animal pacing along at Harold’s side. It’s dim out here, just some party lights strung up along the back of the building and the light spilling out from inside. No one else is sitting out with them, which Harold thinks is just as well. The dog might scare them off.

It’s a pleasing thought, actually.

‘What on earth do you propose we do with this creature?’

‘Well, I thought we could keep him,’ John drawls. ‘Better than a security system, Finch.’

‘I’m not much of a dog person,’ Harold says uncertainly.

‘You weren’t much of a military person.’ John spreads his hands as if to say, _now look what you've got_. As if those two things are remotely the same.

‘As you are quite fond of reminding me, Mr Reese, you were an international spy when we met, not a soldier. And I know a little something about spying.’

John takes a slow sip of his beer, pressing his lips together against the taste. Harold, for reasons he has yet to articulate to himself, finds John’s body language fascinating. Perhaps it’s the tension between control and _impulse_. John always seems so careful about his body, how he carries himself, what he conveys. Yet there must be times when he reacts before discipline can suppress the movement.

When Harold had given him a birthday present, John had smiled in surprise. It had made Harold feel greedy rather than magnanimous.

‘I won’t ever let her take you again,’ John says. It gives Harold a jolt; he clasps his glass tightly.

‘I certainly appreciate your coming to find me, Mr Reese. I’m not entirely sure how you managed it, but I am in your debt.’

‘Like I said – just returning the favour.’

Not really, Harold thinks. Harold sitting at his computer finding ways for John to extricate himself from danger isn’t quite the same as John finding him, coming for him, despite all obstacles. Harold had trained the machine not to protect him, after all. He plans never to be a number on the end of a phone line. Yet John had come.

‘I did rather think I was going to die,’ Harold admits. He can’t look John in the face while he says it, so he looks at his hand around the glass, his white bandage appearing faintly blue in the low light.

‘I know,’ says John. He reaches over and touches that same hand, the bandaged one. The damaged one. His fingers are warm.

Harold stares at them, his field of focus narrowing down to that singular point of heat.

‘Finch? You okay?’

‘I’m – a little tired.’

Heat – warmth – that’s what he needs. A hot cup of tea. A hot shower. Sunlight. Something to stop the dreadful thoughts that keep crowding to the front of his mind.

John’s hand curls over Harold’s and gently pulls it away from the glass.

‘How ‘bout Bear and I walk you home?’

Harold smiles despite himself. ‘Very clever, Mr Reese.’ He looks up to see an answering smile, more in John’s eyes than on his lips.

‘Fine,’ John says. ‘You can walk _me_ home. But you’ll have to take the dog.’

An idea occurs to Harold that he doesn’t stop to examine.

‘I wonder if there might be a third option. One of our safe houses is nearby, if I’m not mistaken, and they accept dogs. Well, they do now.’

‘Let me guess: you own the building?’

‘It seemed safer.’

John appears to consider it. ‘We might have to stop and pick up some dog food on the way.’

‘You know, there _are_ forms of security that don’t have mouths to feed, Mr Reese.’

‘But will any of them eat your assailant? I call that a bonus.’

They stand up from the table and Harold grips the leash tightly. _Bear_ , he thinks. John had named a dog after a wild animal famed for protecting its family, and then promptly presented it to Harold.

‘I do hope kibble will suffice,’ he says to the dog, who looks enthusiastic about leaving.

‘There’s a bodega down on the corner,’ John says. ‘I’ll run down and grab some after we get settled.’

It sounds distressingly domestic. Harold tries not to think about it as he walks alongside John, ungainly where John is fluid and strong. John is everything Harold is not, although they seem to share some common values. Some common feelings, perhaps.

‘I’m not bad at pancakes,’ John says into the night air.

‘Do they teach culinary skills at the CIA?’

‘Only if it involves poison,’ John says comfortably.

‘I’d think I’d rather not know, Mr Reese.’

They walk in easy silence for a way, until they reach the door to the apartment building. As John reaches for the elevator button Harold’s heart starts thumping.

Oh, dear, he thinks. He refused to examine the idea but it was there anyway, and he knows it. His body knows it.

‘Alright, Finch?’ John asks as they ride the elevator to the top floor.

‘Fine, thank you, Mr Reese,’ Harold replies.

John unlocks the door and swiftly checks the apartment. ‘All clear,’ he says. ‘I won’t be long.’

Harold lets Bear off the leash and seeks out what he knows: one of his laptops stands ready on the long dining table.

He taps away at the keys, checking emails and security systems and working on various smaller projects until the door opens again and John is back with several bags. Harold’s heart, which had slowed to a dull thudding, kicks up again.

‘Found some kibble,’ John says, carrying the bags into the kitchen. ‘And some flour.’

‘Flour?’ Harold asks, twisting around to look to the kitchen doorway.

‘Pancakes,’ says John’s voice.

‘Oh,’ says Harold.

Pancakes. Breakfast.

He stares at the screen but the words have stopped making sense. He’s too tired to code. No, he’s too distracted.

Breakfast.

 _Hot tea_ , Harold’s treacherous mind supplies. _Hot pancakes. Sunlight. John._

He shuts the laptop with a small snap. What he needs is a shower.

He takes a long time in the shower, trying not to think of anything at all. Then he dresses carefully in his suit, layering himself in trousers, dress shirt, tie, and waistcoat. When he returns to the living room John is sitting in an armchair, staring into the fireplace.

Harold pauses, formulating his excuse for sitting down at the table again to work. ‘You look tired, Mr Reese,’ he begins, and stops when John rolls up out of the chair and walks over to him. John hasn’t looked at him, doesn’t look until he gets right up close and then he locks eyes with Harold as he curls a hand around the back of Harold’s neck.

‘Tell me if this isn’t what you want,’ he says, and slowly leans in to press his mouth against Harold’s.

Harold jerks back after a second – two, three, four seconds – astonished at himself, unbalanced, but he’s clutching at John’s jacket with both hands.

‘It is,’ he says wonderingly, too startled to dissemble. ‘I’m afraid – it is. But John, you are under no obligation –‘

John’s already shaking his head, leaning in to cut Harold off with one kiss, and then another, as though he can’t help himself.

‘I don’t sleep with people out of obligation, Harold,’ he says, and Harold marvels to see a soft red blush suffuse the high line of his cheekbones. John is beautiful. What he might possibly want with Harold is a mystery, but it’s one that Harold doesn’t want to consider right now.

He reaches up and presses a careful, grateful kiss to John’s mouth and John surges against him, taking more kisses and pressing Harold back into the hallway.

‘Bedroom,’ John says.

‘Which one?’ Harold says distractedly. The small glimpse of skin where John’s shirt is always unbuttoned has apparently caught his eye more than he knew: he badly wants to get his mouth on it.

‘Closest,’ mutters John, his face pressing into Harold’s neck. ‘This one, here.’

They collide with the doorframe.

‘Sorry,’ says John.

‘I hate this jacket,’ Harold replies, tugging at John’s suit. ‘For the love of god, remove it at once.’

John steps back and grins, and Harold stares at him wide-eyed. Now that’s a smile Harold has never seen on John before. It’s positively wicked.

Harold sinks down to sit on the bed and watches as John slips off the jacket and throws it behind him.

‘Oh, my,’ Harold says faintly.

John shucks his shoes and socks with the same cavalier disregard for tailoring, and stands there in his shirtsleeves and bare feet.

‘You going to keep up, Harold, or do you want to watch?’

There are so many things that Harold wants right now that they meld together into one amorphous, urgent _need_. He begins unbuttoning his waistcoat, his eyes watching as John tracks the movement of his fingers.

‘Here,’ John says, and goes to his knees in front of Harold. John’s so tall that they’re not that far apart, even like this. Especially not if Harold leans a little. He steals a kiss, cupping John’s face with an unexpected rush of fondness. John lets him – John, in fact, seems to be soaking in the affection, like he’s been starving for it – and takes over the unbuttoning of Harold’s waistcoat. When it’s open and pushed back off Harold’s shoulders John starts on his tie, and then his shirt buttons.

Harold knows a moment of self-consciousness as his shirt gets pushed back as well.

‘I’m afraid I’m not much to look at,’ he says.

‘You’re just right,’ John replies firmly, and Harold gives up on his usual impulses to shield himself and keep people at arm’s length. He wants all of John pressed against him, John’s warmth and John’s strength, wants John’s weight holding him down, an anchor in a safe harbour.

John is unguarded and gentle, and so warm against him in bed. Later, Harold falls asleep with John curled around him, wondering how he will ever be able to sleep alone now.

He wakes to noise, some sort of clatter, and his heart skips in momentary terror. _Root_ , he thinks, imagining he’s back in Maryland with Denton Weeks strung up and dying. But he opens his eyes and sees morning light streaming in through the window, falling on an armoire he’d bought at a silent auction last month. _Oh, thank god._

He’s in the safe house. And – he hears another clatter and the soft burr of a voice he knows terribly well – John is here.

In fact, John is making breakfast. John is potentially making _pancakes_.

For a moment Harold isn’t sure if he should be horrified or terribly, unreasonably happy; John is here and they’re both safe – and they slept together. The previous night comes back to him in violent, arresting memory, and for a moment all he can think of is the smooth warmth of John’s skin under his fingers, like fine marble under a hot sun.

He should be horrified. He _is_ horrified, or at least concerned: he feels exposed, and reckless, and not a little embarrassed. But when he rises and washes up in the bathroom, dressing slowly back into trousers and shirtsleeves, he also feels as though an incredible weight has been drained from his body. Inside he is all lightness and quiet.

‘Good morning,’ he says when he emerges into the kitchen.

John is wearing his white t-shirt, a tea towel slung over one broad shoulder, and his hair looks delightfully tussled. Harold feels inordinately pleased at the sight.

‘Morning, Finch,’ John replies. ‘You’re just in time for breakfast.’

‘Excellent,’ says Harold. He pauses. ‘I wanted to thank you, John.’

‘No need,’ John says, and turns away to the cupboards, fetching down two plates.

‘Not for –‘ Harold senses he’s made a misstep. ‘I wanted to thank you for the drink,’ he qualifies. ‘And perhaps for not making me drink beer.’

‘You’re welcome.’ John’s tone is warm; he glances at Harold over his shoulder.

Harold can’t help the smile that curves his mouth.

‘So. Pancakes, Mr Reese?’ he asks.

‘Hope you like ‘em,’ John says, indicating a tall pile. ‘Maple syrup’s on the table, if that’s your thing.’

‘I have no idea,’ Harold admits. He hasn’t had pancakes since he was a child. ‘Perhaps butter.’

‘Butter’s good,’ John agrees.

Harold sits at the table and tries his best not to look like a newly-deflowered teenager on his first morning-after. He spots Bear lying on the rug, gnawing on something that looks suspiciously like a pet toy. ‘So where did you learn to make pancakes? I assume it was not, in fact, the CIA.’

John lays the plates on the table, each of them stacked with layers of golden pancakes. Steam rises from them and curls into the morning light. ‘Used to make them for my dad when he was home.’

‘As a child?’

‘He was military. Career Army,’ John says. ‘Wasn’t home much. I helped out with the cooking.’

It’s as much as John has ever volunteered about his childhood.

Harold had done all the cooking, once his father became too ill. But he never produced anything particularly enjoyable. ‘I’m not much of a cook myself. Not enough coding involved,’ he admits.

John’s face softens, as though Harold has amused him. ‘Well, eat up,’ he says, efficiently carving into his stack.

Harold picks up a fork and copies John’s movements. The pancakes are better than he remembers and when he says so, after they’ve finished, John curls his long fingers around Harold’s jaw and kisses him by the sink while the water rushes softly from the tap. They break apart when the sink threatens to overflow but Harold doesn’t care a whit – let the water run out and flood and carry everything away, he thinks.

John is here. He’ll be fine.


End file.
